Orange Peel

The bathroom mirror showed a stranger. My hair blazed orange — Fierce Sunset, the box promised. Mom would freak. Dad would sigh. But honestly? I was vibing with it. First day of sophomore year, new me, no more basic beige Emma who blended into classroom walls.

At school, Jordan didn't even look up from their phone when I sat at our usual lunch spot.

"New aesthetic?" they asked, like they were commenting on the weather, not the literal fire on my head.

"Yeah, figured it was time to—"

"Cool. Whatever." Jordan's eyes darted to the popular table. "Hey, save my spot?"

They ghosted. Again.

This had been happening since middle school. Jordan would be my best friend one minute, then act like I didn't exist when someone cooler walked by. I was getting real tired of being the backup friend, the placeholder before better plans came along.

The hallway felt suffocating. I found myself speed-walking toward the doors, then full-on running. Past the gym, past the parking lot, just running.

My chest burned. My legs shook. But for the first time in forever, I felt like I could actually breathe.

An old orange rolled across the sidewalk — probably someone's lunch reject. I nearly tripped over it, caught myself, and started laughing. Like, actually laughing. This ridiculous orange hair, this ridiculous day, this ridiculous fruit on the ground. It was all so absurdly perfect.

A girl from my English class sat on a bench nearby, sketching in a notebook. She looked up.

"Nice hair," she said. "Bet Jordan hated it."

I stopped mid-laugh. "You noticed?"

"Everyone noticed. You're kind of hard to miss now." She smiled. "I'm Riley."

"Emma."

"Wanna sit? I can show you this street art mural nearby. It's got these insane orange tones — you'd love it."

So I sat. And for the first time, I wasn't anyone's backup friend. I wasn't running anymore, unless it was toward something real.

Sometimes you have to set yourself on fire to see who's actually willing to stand beside you.